


We Are Our Own Alphas

by Call_of_Poseidon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Banshees, Detective Stiles Stilinski, Dreams and Nightmares, Emissaries, Eventual Smut, Hellhounds, M/M, Pack Feels, Post-Nemeton, Scent Marking, Size Difference, Size Kink, Slow Burn, Wendigo, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2020-03-20 16:33:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18996373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Call_of_Poseidon/pseuds/Call_of_Poseidon
Summary: The ley lines that encircled Beacon Hills represented a confluence of power with the nemeton at the center. That power attracted all sorts of supernatural beings, both benevolent and malevolent, to the area. After ten years of shenanigans that included going to college, studying abroad, first apartments, and second and third loves, the McCall Pack found themselves—one by one—returned to Beacon Hills. They too were susceptible to the attraction back to their hometown. None of them saw themselves as “townies,” but one might as well have had it tattooed on their foreheads by now.The McCall Pack had become accustomed to “Monsters of the Week,” but lately, Beacon Hills had fallen quiet, a type of quiet that put the entire Pack on edge. Scott’s mentor, Alan Deaton, had once described it as “regression to the mean.” For as long as things were quiet, there would be an ensuing swing of the pendulum to disquiet. Loud. Dangerous. Disquiet. The swing began again when good old human Stiles decided to have a run in with a good old wendigo for the last time.





	1. Chapter 1

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, et cetera are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

***

“Wendigo?”

“Yes,” Stiles replied. “Wendigo.”

“You sure?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Well, if the walk-in meat locker that is hidden behind a bookcase isn’t enough, perhaps the dozen or so bodies hoisted up on meat hooks should be a good enough indication, you think?”

“The tone is not appreciated, Detective.”

Stiles exhaled, the sound audible through the cellphone he had perched against his ear. “Sorry, Sheriff.”

“It’s Jordan when we got supernatural shit going on,” recently-elected Sheriff Jordan Parrish quipped. “Regardless, I am sending in backup. Where are you? You got eyes on anything?”

Detective Stiles Stilinski already had his gun out of its holster. He was sweeping the meat locker, a shiver going down the spine. Stiles would like to attribute it to the frigid temperature, but the proximity to so many frozen human carcasses was the most likely culprit.

The meat locker was large. Too large for a house this size. It was almost like it was bigger on the inside than on the outside. Putting aside the Doctor Who reference, Stiles found himself on the opposite side of the locker from the only door to the outside world. A door that was slamming shut.

“Stiles, they’re on their way. Just…” Jordan’s voice cut out. Stiles ran to the door, but it was too late. The door had no internal handle and no edges to get even a handhold.

Stiles could see his ghostly white breath. He peered through the small plexiglass window. It was partially frozen over, but Stiles could see through it enough to make out the two milky yellow eyes and razor sharp teeth of a tall figure.

“I wonder how long I have to keep you in here to freeze you like a popsicle,” the wendigo screeched. “I am too hungry to wait though.” The creature pushed the door open slightly. Stiles pushed his shoulder it and tried to use his military-issue boot as a door stopper. He knew well enough that close combat with a wendigo would not go in his very-human favor.

“Hey now,” Stiles replied. “I am Detective Stilinski of the Beacon County Sheriff. I know what you are and why you are doing this. I can help you.”

The door slammed against Stiles shoulder hard and he knew that he would be sore in the morning. The door slammed again and this time, no shoulder or boot would hold against the supernatural strength of a perpetually hungry cannibalistic creature.

Stiles flew to the ground in a painful tumble, his gun skidding across the icy concrete floor well out of reach. He was happy that none of his Pack saw his landing as he would hear about it for weeks. But Stiles was also disheartened that none of his Pack was here to back him up either.

“The cartilage is the best part,” the wendigo sneered. It fell on top of Stiles, straddling his chest good and tight. Stiles flailed trying to get any leverage to shake off his attacker and his impending doom. The wendigo swung his razor sharp fingernails at Stiles’ throat like a guillotine. Stiles slammed the back of his head hard against the concrete floor, barely able to duck his head out of range. His punishment was a splitting headache and long nick across his throat. A coppery metallic smell of blood filled the air and the wendigo’s eyes glistened in anticipation.

Think, Stiles thought. Think. You haven’t gone through all that you have gone through to be eaten by fuckin’ wendigo! Time slowed down for a moment, only a moment. It was enough for Stiles to glance around, taking stock of his predicament. Maybe he was going to die, he realized. Had he had a good life? A full life?

Stiles had experienced so much loss. So much pain. But he had also experienced friendship and love, and a kind of intense camaraderie that comes from being part of a pack of werewolves and other creatures that went bump in the night. Queuing the sappiness, Stiles felt a tear slid down his cheek. It had been awhile since he had been this close to death. It had been quiet in Beacon Hills for so long.

“No!” Stiles yelped. It was a manly yelp though. “Not today,” Stiles stated with conviction. Time sped back up to the bullet fast speed it had been progressing only a second before. Finding clarity of strategy, Stiles did his best to rock his body to the side. The wendigo did its best to hold Stiles down and it was doing a damn good job. All Stiles needed to do was shake loose one of arms though. He didn’t need his arm to punch the wendigo. He didn’t even need to push himself out from under the wendigo. He just needed his arm to distract the wendigo. Finding a small bout of leverage, Stiles snaked his arm free and Stiles felt for the cut around his neck. Striking pay dirt or rather the blood that seemed to be gushing, he swiped enough into his fingers and then slapped the wendigo across the face. A full-on bitch slap.

The smear of blood trickled into the wendigo’s mouth and the scent filled its nostrils. The wendigo’s eyes glistened again and through the distraction, Stiles was able to rotate his hips and ungracefully flip himself out of the wendigo’s vice grip.

The distraction did not last long and Stiles had exactly two seconds before the wendigo’s claws would be piercing his skin.

Two seconds was all that Stiles Stilinski needed however. His gun was still too far away, but a rusty old meat hook was within grasping distance. Despite bloody hands, Stiles was able to grab hold of the hook as the wendigo grabbed his leg and pulled him back into striking range. Stiles used the momentum to swing the hook as hard as he could.

The sound of flesh tearing was awful. The sight of a wendigo with a slash from lip to cheekbone was worse.

The wendigo flailed on the floor and Stiles was able to get some distance and find his gun. He flicked the safety off and pointed it at the wendigo’s heart.

The wendigo got to its feet as well, its eyes were of pure rage. It stepped toward Stiles, but hesitated as its eyes met the barrel of Stiles’ gun.

“Put your hands behind your back!” Stiles ordered. The wendigo took another step forward. Stiles would probably be able to get one shot off before the wendigo got its claws within striking distance of Stiles again. Stiles had to buy more time. He stepped back, but the wendigo followed him step for step.

“Why do you hesitate, Detective,” the wendigo taunted. “I have heard all about you and your Pack. They say you do not kill. Tell me, Detective, if you will not kill me, how will you stop me from roasting that beautiful skin of yours over my barbeque?”

Stiles smiled. “I do not need to kill you. I just need to stop you.” Stiles lowered the barrel of his gun from the wendigo’s chest to its knees. Stiles was a good shot. He was his father’s son after all.

Two shots and two blown kneecaps later, the wendigo was splayed out on the ground. He was wailing in pain. It only served to enrage him more and he started to crawl, scratching his claws against the concrete floor.

Two shots more and the wendigo’s ability to get any leverage at all was destroyed what with a bullet holes in each of its elbows.

The wendigo wasn’t dying, Stiles knew that much.

Despite all the blood and exposed muscle, bones, and tendons, Stiles flipped the wendigo onto its stomach. It screamed obscenities that would make Scott’s abuela blush. Stiles promptly zip tied the wendigo’s wrists and ankles behind its back. The zip ties were made from a plastic composite infused with mountain ash and wolfsbane. Wolfsbane had no effect on wendigos, but mountain ash was particular debilitating against most supernatural creatures.

Coming down from the adrenaline rush, Stiles took stalk of his situation. He found a comfy wall to lean against. He slid down the comfy wall until he was perched on the comfy ground all but two feet from his wendigo prisoner who continued to struggle and scream.

Stiles was cold and drowsy. It was a meat locker, so that explained the cold. The drowsy, he thought, did not quite fit the situation, however. That is when he felt the slash against his throat again. It was still wet and the air around him smelled coppery. Stiles’ head drooped, but he was able to pull out his phone. Stiles was too tired to call for anyone, so he sent off a text instead.

Sleep found Stiles quickly then. The last image Stiles had was of a wendigo, struggling in its bindings, its eyes alight in fiery rage. The last thought Stiles had was that his formula for the mountain ash infused zip ties was untested but for the wendigo that was, again, very near Stiles’ foot.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles came back to consciousness with a fury although his normal flailing was held back by a strong palm on his chest.

“Dude, stop. You’re going to make it worse,” a familiar voice said. “Dude!”

Stiles blinked and found his concentration drawn to a clawed hand on his bare chest. Those claws were connected to his best friend, his Alpha, his brother. “Scott, man, what’s up?”

“Your blood pressure,” Scott replied. “That’s not what’s up.”

“I feel fine,” Stiles observed. He shouldn’t feel fine though, he realized. The entire Wendigo incident replayed in Stiles’ mind at warp speed. Stiles finally had the wherewithal to take full stock of his predicament. He smelled the blood, his blood. His eyes informed that he was still in the meat locker. Focusing on Scott’s hand, Stiles noticed the black veins coursing upwards from Stiles. Scott was taking Stiles’ pain. Stiles understood why he felt fine. He also understood that it would not last.

Stiles tried to struggle again. He wanted to show his friend that he was strong. That he could take it. Scott would not budge. “Just let me do this for you, man. You do too much.”

Maybe he did do too much, Stiles wondered as he felt for the gash in his neck. It was wrapped in gauze and tape. Blood was seeping through, but it would hold for a while.

“Theo,” Scott answered Stiles’ unasked question. “He wrapped up the gash on your neck. I am having him and Jordan clear the house before we move you. Your wendigo is the only one we’ve found so far.”

“My wendigo?” asked Stiles sarcastically.

Stiles followed Scott’s line of vision. Stiles’ wendigo was laying on its side on the far end of the meat locker. It remained in the zip ties that Stiles had used earlier. The wendigo’s eyes were ones of pure rage. Someone had stuffed a rag in his mouth to muffle the screams. The rag was only having moderate success as its teeth were tearing the cloth to shreds.

Stiles noticed that the wendigo’s cheek gash had healed, leaving a small, but angry scar. Stiles could not help be feel proud.

“Are you okay to stand up?” Scott asked apprehensively.

Stiles nodded and let Scott pull him to his feet. Stiles felt lightheaded and stumbled. He hugged onto Scott, squishing his bloody coat all over Scott’s shirt. It was a disgusting mess.

Scott caught Stiles easily.

“No others in the house or nearby,” announced Jordan, entering the meat locker with one of his deputies, Theo Raken.

Looking squarely at Stiles, Jordan lectures, “I pay you to wait for backup before you enter a supernatural creature’s nest under the guise of executing a search warrant. I do not pay you, a human, to jump into a dangerous, supernatural situation without backup.” Jordan had clearly put on his Sheriff hat.

Sheriff Parrish dragged the wendigo up to its feet, his knees and elbows had long since healed. The wendigo struggled, but it was difficult for him to overpower a Hellhound—Jordan’s eyes flashing their familiar fiery orange. “Don’t even try it, buddy. I won’t hesitate to burn you alive. You were a bit too open about your killing spree and now we have to clean up the mess.”

As they all walked out of the darkened house, the moonless night was illuminated by police cruisers. There was a big white van parked on the street with Eichen House painted on its side in foreboding black lettering. A chill crept down Stiles’ spine at that sight. The Pack was forced to use their services on occasion lest they kill their supernatural prisoners instead. No one liked it, but it was preferable to the alternative. They certainly couldn’t let the wendigo go. Like Jordan had said, the wendigo had been too visible with its activities. Someone could have seen and while many did know of the supernatural world, the overwhelming majority did not.

“We ought to get you to the hospital,” Theo offered with a smile.

Theo Raken always perplexed Stiles. He had been so rotten when Stiles had first met him, and that had been well over ten years ago. Over time, Stiles came to conclude that Theo was the product of his surroundings, including the Dread Doctors, and that Theo’s chosen profession of law enforcement was his attempt at some sort of redemption.

It had taken Scott along time to accept Theo into the Pack. It took about as long as Stiles took to accept Theo in the Pack actually. Scott was always so forgiving. Stiles was not. Scott and Stiles balanced each other out. That was why Stiles was Scott’s Emissary, even though Stiles was still not sure what that entailed exactly. But when Stiles was good with something, Scott was good with it too. That was how the Pack operated.

“I feel fine,” Stiles lied. He should have known better, but he wanted to at least give the impression that he was strong.

“Go get checked out, Detective,” Sheriff Parrish ordered. “We’ll finish up here.”

Scott gave Stiles his patented dopey smile. Stiles was immune to his best friend’s charm but agreed to let Theo take him anyways only because he was feeling generous.

“Breakfast tomorrow?” Scott asked. “I don’t have any appointments until mid-morning.”

“Of course, dude.” Stiles bumped fists with Scott, and allowed Theo to take over hoisting him up. Scott looked unsure of himself, his dopey smile wavering just the slightest.

Three hours later, Stiles arrived home from the hospital. Thankfully, Melissa Argent was on duty and was able to take care of Stiles’ unique wounds. If it had been someone else, there may have been more questions than he or anyone would want to answer. Regardless, while the cut was not too deep, initially, the ensuing struggle tore it something fierce. Melissa was able to use some liquid stitches to close the wound, and if he was lucky, he wouldn’t have too big of a scar. Stiles was used to scars by now, his body was marked by many of them. Came with the territory.

Stiles was happy to be home, finally. It was in the old warehouse that Derek Hale owned. Derek, who had been away from Beacon Hills for years now, had pledged his membership in Scott’s Pack, so what was Derek’s was Scott’s. Scott wanted to have a den where all of the Pack could live if they wanted.

There were ten loft units. Stiles and Scott had their lofts on the top floor on either side a shared living space that was used for pack meetings. Scott shared with Kira who had recently returned from her time with the Skinwalkers. The flame between Scott and Kira was easily rekindled although Kira felt a decade out of date. She technically didn’t even graduate high school.

The floor below saw the lofts for Liam, Theo, Mason, and Lydia.

Mason shared with Corey as they had been married for five years now. They had been talking about having children, so they had been looking at potentially moving to a more suburban housing arrangement.

The four remaining lofts were for the more transient members of the McCall Pack or whatever guest the Pack were entertaining at the time.

Aside from the loft units, there was an outdoor living space on the rooftop, a laboratory, armory outfitted with the best Chris Argent could find, a training area, and garage. The building was fortified with every supernatural defense Stiles and Lydia could come up with, including a few escape tunnels that connected to the city’s sewer system.

For those who did not know the building was a den, it appeared to be another part of the gentrification of a more dilapidated part of Beacon County. For the supernaturally inclined, it was a veritable fortress. For Stiles, it was home.

After dropping Theo off at his floor, Stiles rode up the large cargo elevator to his floor in silence. In one hand, he held some pretty powerful pain meds. Stiles was still riding the high Scott had provided when he leached out some of his pain, but Stiles knew that it would not last. In his other hand, Stiles clung to a workers’ compensation note—authorizing Stiles for a weeks’ leave to recuperate with pay. Stiles had to chuckle at himself. He could not imagine Beacon County’s insurance premiums. They probably were legend. They were probably why Stiles’ salary was so relatively abysmal. He didn’t do it for the money, but money nevertheless was what paid his student loans.

The elevator lurched to a stop. Just inside his sound proofed door, Stiles dropped all the items he had clutched in his hands to the floor. He needed a shower and he needed his bed. The sun was beginning to peak out over the horizon. Stiles had a damn good view, he thought. Keeping the floor to ceiling windows were his idea.

Stiles shed his blood-soaked street clothes and Kevlar vest easily enough. Peeling back the gauze from his neck, Stiles noticed the bruising coming to full fruition. The liquid stitches were holding thankfully. In the mirror, Stiles saw himself come to full view as well. He had bumps and bruises up and down his torso. Still, they weren’t as bad as they could have been and they kind of made Stiles look even more like a badass. He was tall and probably fit the textbook definition of lithe. He had managed to add thirty pounds to his frame over the years, all of it muscle. He had to keep up with werewolves, a banshee, and a hellhound after all. Add to the muscle was a large claw mark scar across his right pec that lead down his abs and a set of black rings tattooed around his left bicep.

While he looked like a badass on the outside, inside, Stiles knew that he was getting old. Yes, he was only in late twenties, but keeping up with supernatural creatures took a physical toll. In the past year or so, Stiles began realizing that he had been lucky perhaps a few too many times.

What had Deaton called it? Regression to the mean? For as long as Stiles had been lucky, there would be an ensuing swing to unlucky. The problem was that for Stiles, unlucky in a supernatural contest would likely lead to a severed limb or severed head, either of which was a nasty proposition.

With a big sigh, Stiles eyed the shower with the same desire he would eye his own dick when it was time for some solo sexy times. Melissa had warned that Stiles ought to wait at least 48 hours before showering or risk the liquid stitches coming loose, but he decided to risk it.

The shower was marvelous and allowed Stiles to get the filth of the night off him. He made sure to get his unscented soap in all the nooks and crannies. His wolfy compatriots seemed to scent him more roughly when he would use scented soap, shampoo, or deodorant, so unscented everything had been his default purchases for some time.

Stiles felt like a new man when he stumbled over to his bed, stark naked. He was simply too tired to put anything on. He wasn’t too tired to close the blackout curtains though. The sun was piercing by now and Stiles was not having it.

Stiles found serenity amongst his pillow, comforter, and sheets. He popped a few pain pills without reading the instructions, the opioid crisis be damned.

Stiles would have let sleep overtake him but he remembered he needed to plug his phone in. That was a cardinal rule in Stiles’ book. He would hate to have one of his Pack mates get hurt because they couldn’t reach Stiles’ due to a dead phone. The phone had a message on it from someone Stiles hadn’t spoken with in ages.

Sourwolf: Heard you got into quite the scuffle

To say Stiles was surprised to hear from Derek Hale would be an understatement. Yes, he was part of the Pack, but he had been running around the world doing his own thing for years now. Derek had gone through so much pain in Beacon Hills that Stiles understood why Derek had a knack for staying away from it. Derek would check in with Scott every now and again, and would meet with them as a group when they weren’t in Beacon Hills.

When everyone was away at college, Derek was around more often. The Pack had spread itself amongst several universities throughout the country, but Derek did a good job of visiting everyone, even Stiles.

Over time, the visits became less frequent though. It wasn’t for a bad reason. Derek had begun to get closer and closer with Braedon who was true badass in the Pack, and there were talks of marriage and kids. Those plans came to a screeching halt when Braedon was killed by a drunk driver. For as much of a badass Braedon was, it was shocking that something so un-supernatural would take her from this world and from Derek.

Braedon’s death devastated Derek, but Stiles was in no position to offer comfort. He was busy finishing up the California Police Academy after having completed his masters in forensic science. Scott had taken a semester off from veterinary school to be with Derek. Scott never spoke of what went down and Stiles never asked. Derek had been traveling about ever since, meeting other packs and supernaturals as a kind of envoy. The Hale name meant a lot in the supernatural world even after it was almost snuffed out in a fire almost twenty years prior.

Derek rarely contacted Stiles directly, preferring to reach out to Scott, his Alpha, instead. Still, it made Stiles feel a warm hum in his soul because that Derek was thinking of him. A warm hum? Stiles questioned internally. He quickly chopped it up to the opiates kicking in. Stiles knew too well what their effect was on him. He ran with werewolves quite often. They healed quickly. He did not.

Stiles: Just a scuffle with a wendigo. Didn’t know you cared?! You’re getting soft!

It took a long time for the Sourwolf to respond. Stiles felt that maybe the joke was perhaps not so funny. Now, however, the pain meds were kicking in, so Stiles became convinced his joke was funny.

Sourwolf: I always cared. Just never told you. Didn’t want your head to get big.

Stiles laughed.

Stiles: Since when did you become the comedian??

Sourwolf: I am hilarious.

Stiles rolled his eyes and yawned at the same time.

Stiles: You are many things, Sourwolf. You are pretty chipper for 6:30 in the morn.

Stiles: Well, that’s 6:30 my time. Where you at?

Sourwolf: Sourwolf? Still? Iceland. Been here for about three months. It’s the afternoon where I am

Stiles yawned again. He tried to be intrigued by the thoughts of the island nation of ice and fire, but sleep was hitting him hard, aided by the hydrocodone.

Stiles: I am off of work for a week because of the wendigo. You should come visit me

Stiles was down and out for the count then. His dreams were not nightmares, which was a huge deviation from the norm. He dreamt that he was walking under a starry night alongside a large, black wolf with fiery orange eyes.

When Stiles next awoke, he could not help but feel a bit discouraged that the black wolf’s eyes were not blue.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles woke to someone yelling much too loud.

“Dude, put some clothes on!” Scott groused.

“Don’t break into my house and expect me to wear clothes,” Stiles replied, his voice muffled by pillows.

Finding some semblance of wakefulness, Stiles found his morning wood rutting itself hard into his sheets. As he has gotten older, he had found that he has gotten even hornier than when he was a teenager.

Stiles slapped his hand across this ass dramatically. “It’s a good bubble, don’t you think?”

His Alpha responded with a retch.

Stiles rolled over, bearing himself fully to Scott.

Scott was a werewolf and nudity was as much a part of Scott McCall as were his red eyes in the moonlight. Admittedly, showcasing one’s hardon was pushing boundaries.

Stiles’s own amber eyes found a target in the sunlight, however. He made grabby hands for the tray of golden pancakes that Scott was holding.

Scott grimaced.

Stiles’s quirked an eyebrow. “Hand over the pancakes, McCall, or I will acclimate you to my wolfsbane blowdart gun.”

Scott grimaced again. “Dude, I don’t need to see your boner or your gun, again.” Nevertheless, Scott handed over the tray of carbohydrate glory, specifically placing it over Stiles’ lap to create some level of modesty.

Stiles was not modest and jumped right into his breakfast.

For Scott’s part, he took a seat next to his best friend. Stiles knew he was being surveyed for the cuts, bumps, and bruises that tarnished his otherwise mole-dotted, alabaster skin. Scott leant over a bit more, smelling at Stiles’ neck to see how Stiles was doing. For good measure, Scott wrapped his hand around Stiles’ neck, scent marking him. To outsiders, Stiles was sure that this would appear very homoerotic. To Stiles, it was a Monday.

The hunger in Stiles’ stomach quickly satiated itself. His body reminded him that it was time for another bout of pain meds. Stiles exhaled in a huff. He could feel the soreness kicking in.

“Thank you,” Stiles said, meeting Scott’s puppy dog eyes. “Dude, I think I had a wet dream about Jordan, last night.”

Scott shook his head. “You did not have a wet dream, Stiles.” Before Stiles could protest, Scott tapped at his nose to remind all present that his werewolf nose was all the confirmation that Scott needed. Right, wet dream meant a blown load...

Stiles bit his lip. Jordan had always been impeccably attractive. He even had a few gray hairs coming in that only upped his hotness factor. Shit, was Stiles getting into older dudes? Would he be into older ladies too?

Scott sensed that Stiles needed to take his ADHD medicine. Trying to capture his best friend’s attention again, Scott notified Stiles that he had news.

“Derek is coming for a visit. He called me this morning. Said he would be in tomorrow evening.”

Stiles quickly remembered his brief text conversation with the old sourwolf. Stiles pulled his phone off the charger and found one unread text.

Sourwolf: **Ok**

Ok?

While Scott elucidated the details, Stiles reviewed the text thread with Derek. Stiles had to chuckle at his obvious opioid-fueled texting spree. But what stilled his breath was the text that Derek should come visit him. Stiles, specifically. He scrolled up the thread and discovered that Derek did not start the conversation when Stiles was living the high life. It had started earlier in the evening. It started when Stiles was in the meat locker, about to die.

Stiles thought he had texted Scott when he was in the meat locker, and Stiles had assumed that is why he was found where he was. But looking at the text thread now, it became very clear that Stiles did not text Scott at all when he was about to die. Stiles texted Derek.

**I need you**

Those three words made Stiles heart stammer and his skin flush. If Scott noticed, he said nothing. For his part, Stiles had always had a place in his heart for Derek. A deep, dark place that no one, not even his best friend in the world knew about. And it is a place that turned Stiles into that spastic, twitchy teenager that he used to be long ago.

“Where are my opiates?” Stiles asked, clearing his throat, Jordan clearly forgotten.

***

Stiles lazed on the couch in the main living room they used for pack meetings. More like groaned on it. That wendigo attack really fucked him up. The opiates were doing the trick more or less, but he was now out of them. He had known his compatriots would take turns helping with his pain once the pills ran out, but he also knew he would have to ask. He didn’t want to ask though. He was stubborn like that.

Everyone milled about expecting Derek’s arrival. Lydia was grading a practice GED test that Kira had just finished while Corey and Mason canoodled on the couch opposite Stiles. Scott was texting on his phone, and Liam was twiddling his thumbs. Jordan and Theo were on duty, this evening and would stop by to see Derek once he had settled in.

There was a palpable charge in the air. A long lost Packmate was coming home, finally. Even Stiles, the human, felt it. It was comforting.

The cargo elevator started and Stiles noted that the supernaturally inclined around him were actively scenting the air. He had to smirk at Liam when he yipped like the proverbial puppy he remained—even at 27.

Stiles could not help but gulp down the drool that suddenly formed when Derek lifted the cargo elevator door up, the change in height causing his very blue shirt to ride up, exposing abs deftly arranged in dark fur. It was brief glimpse, but it was all that Stiles needed in that moment.

Stiles chuckled from his position on the couch as the rest of the Pack, including Lydia, pounced on Derek in a good old fashioned puppy pile.

The chuckle had clearly made its way to Derek’s ears because he quickly extricated himself from the floor of supernaturals and knelt beside Stiles, taking in his state.

“You have looked better, Stiles.”

“Awe, you do care, you old softy,” Stiles replied with a bite of sarcasm. “You gotta few grey hairs in your beard.” Yep, Stiles was into older dudes now.

Derek thumbed his beard. “They say it makes me look distinguished.”

Stiles took a moment to really take in Derek. He looked broader, but then Derek had always been a big guy. He had at least four inches on Stiles and his girth, well, it was girthy. A tuff of chest hair peeked out of the top his shirt. Apparently, Derek had stopped manscaping more than just his beard awhile ago. Stiles wasn’t complaining.

Derek came down for a landing, delivering a quasi-horizontal awkward hug. Derek couldn’t get his bear-sized paws around Stiles, so he just squished Stiles a bit. It felt good.

Derek breathed in Stiles scent and growled a bit. It was soft, but it was there. Derek pulled away and wiped at his eyes. They flashed electric blue for a fraction of a second. Had Stiles not been existing in “slow motion” mode, what with Derek’s body laying on top of Stiles and all, Stiles would have missed it.

“I am here as you asked,” Derek announced, lifting Stiles’ feet so he could slip under them and take a seat on the couch. Derek lowered Stiles’ heals right onto his crotch and promptly began to massage them. If they were stinky, Derek didn’t seem to mind.

“What have I missed?” Derek asked.

And with that, Derek Hale fell back into step with the rest of the McCall Pack and into Stiles’ heart.


	4. Chapter 4

The guards had finally left after spraying him down with a fire hose on full blast and beating him for good measure. Regular police batons were nothing, but add razor sharp spikes to the end and well, that did a number.

He realized that he needed to stop thrashing and carrying on. He would not be able to heal himself and escape these chains and kill that fucking human if he did not. So, he found solace in his imagination, a quite graphic and fulfilling vision that included severing that human from its life and roasting its flesh over a spit.

That dream led to a peace of mind and he was able to calm his body and just breathe. He held firm to the thin mattress he was chained to. He could feel his wounds clotting and covering over with new skin. He could feel the bruise over its left eye disappearing. 

The human...

He realized that he had to learn more about the human. He had said many things, but they were hard to remember. The only thing that came to mind about that human was that he was mouthy. 

He liked to talk.

The wendigo could use that.

The wendigo was hungry.

***

Stiles felt justified using all of the closet space, kitchen cabinets, and even a crawl space in the loft that Derek was occupying as Stiles had inherited a lot of stuff when his dad moved out of his childhood home and into that condo across town. Despite the justification, that his possessions were in Derek’s possession gave Stiles mad anxiety. What would Derek find? Stiles was pretty sure he had stored all his, uh, personal toys in his own loft.

“Stiles, really,” Derek yawned. “Just leave it. It’s fine.” Derek stood in a cutoff and threadbare shorts that left nothing to the imagination with respect to his bulging quadriceps. Stiles chose to avert his eyes as much as possible. It was better that way. 

Stiles had clearly woken Derek up.

Stiles, for his part, hadn’t realized how early it was. He wasn’t sleeping well again, so he figured that he would be productive.

“It’s okay,” Stiles reasoned. “I’ll just take a load up and then return when it’s not four in the morning. Sorry for waking you.” He hoisted the laundry basket onto his hip. It was full to the brim with old clothes, a rubber duck, and a ratty afghan blanket that used to smell like his mother’s perfume. Stiles didn’t know where the rubber duck came from. He would keep it nevertheless.

Derek crossed the room and stole the basket from Stiles’ grasp. It was probably a good idea since it was going to topple over anyways. 

“Sit,” Derek ordered. 

Dutifully, Stiles perched himself on the armrest of the couch. Derek was quick to brew some french press coffee, handing Stiles a steaming mug. 

The elixir was quick to rev Stiles’ engine. He may not have been able to sleep, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t doggone tired. 

Derek took up a position at the opposite end of the couch. “So why the early morning move out? You are welcome to keep your stuff here. I don’t need this space for anything other than sleeping.”

Derek had arrived with remarkably little from Iceland. Just a duffle bag, a pair of boots, and his well worn leather jacket.

“No, really. It’s okay. I don’t want to intrude on your den,” Stiles whispered more into his mug than to Derek. 

“You’re pack, Stiles. My den is your den. Or actually, your secondary den is my primary den.”

Stiles didn’t have the energy to respond to Derek’s attempt at a joke. “So, why are you here?” he asked instead. He slid down onto the couch properly and pulled his feet off the cold, hardwood floor. 

Derek smiled blankly. “It was time to head out. Move on to the next stop. I guess I just needed a little push.” 

“I am good at pushing you, Derek,” Stiles announced as if he nor Derek didn’t already know that. “So why are you really here?”

“You know,” Derek sighed, raking his hands through his hair. “My therapist said I need to open up more with people I trust. There aren’t many people in Iceland that I know let alone trust.”

Stiles bugged out for a moment internally. Therapist?

Derek was quick on the draw. “I see that look. I thought you would be happy that I told you I was seeing a therapist.”

Stiles needed to explain. He needed Derek to understand that it wasn’t that Stiles thought he was weird or weak, or that their relationship as distant as it had become over the years meant that Stiles didn’t care for Derek or think he had been dealt one of the shittest deals in the world.

“Of course, I am happy that you’re seeing a therapist,” Stiles finally replied. “It’s just how can you tell a therapist all the shitty things that have happened to you without dropping the supernatural card. Unless this guy or gal already knows of your glowing eyes and dewclaws?”

“She is a werewolf herself,” Derek replied. “She runs with a pack out of Toronto, she knew my mother, what happened to her, what happened in the fire, and what happened to me. It is important, my therapist says, to use the word ‘happened’ and not the word ‘caused’ because what happened to my mom, what happened to my family, and what happened to me was not my fault.”

Stiles wouldn’t take his eyes off of Derek. Stiles wanted to choose his words carefully. He would never lie to Derek though. “I know it has been awhile since we really have been around each other or even have spoken, but I know you well enough, Derek, to know you believe in your heart of hearts that you are the cause of all that you have gone through. Even Braeden.”

Derek erupted from his seat and set his mug down on the breakfast island.

“I wasn’t finished,” Stiles added. “But I know that while you believe you are the cause, you are trying to be a better person, trying to move past… well, your past, to use the hell you have experienced to help others. I know that you Skype regularly with Liam because he still struggles with his anger and control even now. I know you meet with other packs for Scott to assess their potential threat because despite accepting his role as the True Alpha, Scott has always wanted a normal life, a life with fewer things that go bump in the night. I also know that from time to time you look in on Erica and Boyd’s families and make sure they are taken care of.”

The silence in the room was palpable. Stiles fully spread out on the couch, only wincing a bit. He could use with an opiod, but those had run out what seemed like a lifetime ago now. He was tired. More tired than when he had broken into Derek’s loft. Stiles raised his empty mug. “Mr. Hale, your actions represent a much healthier behavior than what your actions would have been ten years ago. Ten years ago, you would have threatened to rip my throat out with your teeth. Now, you’re going to offer me another cup of coffee. I mean, that’s progress. Real, unadulterated progress.”

Derek silently took the mug and returned to the french press. When he turned back to Stiles, mug filled to the brim, Derek found Stiles fast asleep. Derek pulled the ratty afghan from the laundry basket and draped it over Stiles. Derek would head back to bed himself, but only after draining as much pain as he could from Stiles.

***

Stiles’ had become pretty good at identifying that he was dreaming. It was an unwanted, unnerving skill that he was able to hone after his bout with the nogitsune. His dreams always started innocuous enough like warming the bench on the lacrosse pitch or he would be sitting down to dinner with his Dad--a rarity in reality. He really needed to get better at that.

Invariably, however, these dreams would devolve into something so frightening that Stiles felt as they tore at his soul. He had impaled Scott through the gut with a katana more times that he could remember. He had held Derek’s head beneath the surface of the high school pool more than once. He had even shot his Dad through the heart with a bow and arrow while he sat eating a turkey burger.

The only solace Stiles would ever find was when he would eventually wake, often covered in a sheen of sweat. He would always struggle to fall back asleep, so he would work out or get to the sheriff’s station early instead. Keeping busy allowed him to ignore how tired he was. It also allowed him to ignore how afraid he was of where his mind would wander the next time he slept.

Instead of a nightmare, however, Stiles was blinded by sunlight. He carefully allowed his eyelids to crack open to take stock of the situation. The sun was blasting through the drapes, a cool breeze wafting through the open window. Stiles always enjoyed sleeping with a breeze, his nightmares notwithstanding. He pulled the afghan over his face to block out the sun. His nostrils caught the distant scent of his mother’s perfume in the fabric. He was surprised that after nearly twenty years, it would have any scent to it other than mothballs.

No nightmares? Stiles was a pessimist for obvious reasons. 

Stiles heard something rustling beyond his afghan cocoon. Realizing he was still in Derek’s loft, Stiles figured it was Derek being Derek. In other words, Derek was sitting at the breakfast island judging Stiles for falling asleep on the couch. Stiles wanted five more minutes of splendid slumber, but when the rustling got louder, it was clear that Derek was fed up with being quiet for Stiles’ sake. 

“Ugh,” Stiles whined loudly. He pulled the afghan off his face only to realize he was not on the couch, but rather cold, hard dirt. A forest. Stiles knew this forest, or rather what part of the Preserve he was in. Or rather Stiles was still asleep. Stiles was dreaming. Fuck.

It was broad daylight and the stump of the nemeton stood quietly before Stiles. He was clad in nothing more than the pajama bottoms and sleeveless tee he was wearing in Derek’s loft. The afghan laid strewn across a bed of leaves. It was wet and muddy, as if Stiles had slept on the ground all night. 

The sound of the Preserve hit Stiles’ ears informing him that the rustling was the wind sweeping up dead leaves, lazily carrying them around the nemeton.

Stiles felt the power of the nemeton. It was a gravity, pulling him closer. He had never overtly felt the draw of the nemeton before. When he ran his hand across the stump, he tried to count the number of rings that encircled it. The number of rings equaled the age of the tree. He couldn’t focus on any one line. 

On the far end of the stump was a small growth, a tiny sapling sprouting from a crack in the stump. Stiles knew that the nemeton had sprouted before, but the magical wood was always snapped away before it could grow. Most feared the tree. Some used it for their own gain. No one protected it.

The wind picked up carrying with it the smell of burning brimstone. The leaves around the nemeton smoked and caught fire. It danced around the nemeton, eventually engulfing it in flames. Even the sapling erupted in fire. Sounds of fire crackling and popping flooded Stiles’ ears, but the nemeton showed no visible signs it was disintegrating. The fire also didn’t seem to spread either. Stiles sampled the heat of the flames with his fingers. They felt like nothing more than wisps of warm wind. Finding some confidence, he pushed his hands deeper into the flames and his arms and then his body were engulfed in the warm wind. Stiles felt enamored by this experience; he felt respect for it. 

The warm, flickering flames started to get hot, though. Too hot. Stiles tried to yell, but he found the oxygen burned away. He tried to pat the fire out, but it only fanned the flames. They had turned from orange to blue. He turned from the nemeton, hoping to find the nearby creek. Christ, he would go for a puddle at this point. 

Stiles knew he was dreaming. He knew this was a nightmare. He also knew the shock, the pain, and the fear felt real to him. 

He fell to the ground, just breathing, just feeling, just letting this nightmare happen to him, praying for the moment when his mind would figure it out and wake him up.

Finally, this unending moment ended and Stiles awoke, but only because a pail of ice water was dumped on him. 

“Son of a bitch!” he yelled.


	5. Chapter 5

Derek hadn’t slept this well in ages. The bed he occupied was warm and engendered his scent. He was lying on his stomach, face buried in his overstuffed pillow. His morning wood was held tight against the mattress and ached for attention. Derek had been horny as of late. Like really horny, which was a change from his norm of stoic indifference. It had been awhile since Braeden. It had been awhile since anything. 

Derek was just about to turn over and give his dick some attention when he heard an urgent knock at the door. Not the door to his room, but the door to the loft. Derek pulled his phone off the bed stand to see a deluge of texts from Scott.

Have you seen Stiles?

Dude. Stiles isn’t in his room. 

Derek. Open up. Stiles’ scent ends at your door. 

With another pound on the door, Derek sprung up and crossed the loft with wolf-like speed. He noted that Stiles wasn’t on the couch any longer. His scent, while present, had dissipated somewhat.

“He’s not here,” Derek announced, opening the door.

Scott’s eyes met Derek’s eyes. Then Scott’s eyes met Derek’s boner through the thin cotton shorts. Scott’s eyes met Derek’s eyes. “Dude, put that away. Have you seen Stiles? He had a follow up appointment at the hospital, but he never showed.”

“Have you called him?” Derek asked.

Scott frowned. “And texted. Nothing.”

Derek had experienced many worries in his life. Stiles’ safety, despite him being human, was not one of them nowadays. While he had not kept in direct contact with Stiles over the years, indirectly Derek had become quite aware that Stiles had become something of a bad ass. 

“Is Roscoe still here?” Derek asked, referring to the Jeep that Stiles had inherited from his deceased mother.

Scott nodded, doing a once over of the loft.

“Spit it out, Scott,” Derek stated.

“You and him didn’t get into a fight, again, did you?”

Scott’s question annoyed Derek to no end. “I haven’t spoken with him in years. Still, let me grab some street clothes and we’ll see if we can catch his scent.” 

Something must have caught Scott’s eye because he knelt near the couch and grabbed onto something. Stiles’ phone. It was turned off. Stiles never turned his phone off, Derek knew that much.

Scott left to go downstairs, while Derek made quick work of throwing on some jeans, a shirt, and boots. His boner had subsided slightly. He’d be embarrassed about it if he wasn’t perplexed as to its existence at this very moment in time.

Out on the street, Derek scented the air. There were faint traces of Stiles in the breeze. He smelled of soap, lemongrass, and Adderall. There was a tinge of something smokey. Ashy?

“Stiles hasn’t taken up smoking, has he?” Derek asked.

Scott shook his head. “Aside from a few joints back in college, nothing.”

“Wait,” Derek said, scenting the air a bit more. “It’s not a cigarette. It’s more organic than that. It’s bonfire, like the last wisps of smoke of a dying bonfire.”

Scott scented the air as well. His face informed Derek that he couldn’t catch the scent.

“I think I can track it,” Derek announced, heading down the street. The hustle and bustle that was downtown Beacon Hills began to fall away as Derek and Scott moved through town. 

Scott had texted the Pack, instructing them to be on the lookout for Stiles. 

They started to move into the woods and Derek began to disrobe. “I can track Stiles best if I am fully shifted,” he said, handing his clothes and boots to Scott in a tight wad.

Derek crouched low to the ground, hands and feet grasping at the cool earth beneath him. He felt the familiar wild tingle shoot up his spine and across his extremities. His eyes flashed electric blue and fur erupted from his skin. His shape changed quickly from human to canine.

Suddenly, before Scott was Derek the quite literal 300 pound wolf, obsidian black and all power, speed, and strength. Scott was not afraid of Derek in his Alpha form. If anything, he felt more connected to his friend, his brother, his packmate. 

For Derek’s part, his wolf was freer in this form, a gift of genetics he had inherited from his mother, Talia Hale. He scented the air and the ashy, wooden scent was clear as a day, a line that led deeper into the Preserve. Derek pointed his snout in that direction and having clued Scott in, they took off a supernatural pace. Scott kept up with Derek easily. About five miles in, they had crossed the creek that snaked through the Preserve and easily hopped over the ravine. 

What was becoming very clear to Derek was that the deeper into the Preserve they went, in the particular direction they were heading, meant that Stiles was in trouble. The direction they were heading in was a direction that all packmates in the McCall Pack tried to avoid. 

They were heading straight for the Nemeton. 

“That damn tree,” Scott sighed. 

Derek had to agree although it was nothing more than a stump and had been for longer than Derek had been alive. Whenever the Nemeton was involved, though, scary shit occurred and people usually died. 

They were about a mile away from the Nemeton when Scott announced he caught Stiles’ scent. He didn’t catch the smokey flavor that seemed to be added, however. Derek’s senses were alight with the scent. Derek quickly dismissed his first impression of that the scent as it reminded him of the burned out husk that was his family’s home, the site of his family’s murders. Rather the scent was more homey, not pain and certainly not death. 

It was more like the scent of a crackling bonfire. Derek had said as much in human form not thirty minutes before. The scent was deeper here and Derek remembered how his father would often tend a bonfire while the more supernaturally inclined in his family would prowl the woods, howling at the full moon. His father was a master at cooking up masterpieces like pudgy pies and banana boats over those bonfires. 

Derek hadn’t thought of his father’s bonfire food tradition in a long time.

The call of Scott brought Derek out of his reverie. They were coming upon the Nemeton stump in the small clearing where it stood. Stiles was nowhere to be found. 

“Do you smell the blood? Let’s split up. See what we can find,” Scott instructed, panic coloring his voice.

Derek nodded and approached the Nemeton, ready for anything. The scent was strong here. It was all Stiles. At first Derek could not see anything, but he allowed his nose to do the work. Circling to the far side of the Nemeton, Derek’s heart sank.

Stiles was lying in the dirt, his clothes from the night before in tatters. His skin had deep cuts up and down his hands, arms, legs, and feet--all bare. His feet were bleeding badly, like he had stumbled through the woods barefoot. 

Derek’s wolf whimpered.

Derek felt his humanity pour over his body, allowing him to shift to his human form. He cradled Stiles’ head, slapping it gently. “Stiles, please wake up. Stiles!”

Scott raced over to where Derek was huddled over Stiles. He shook Stiles shoulder gently, then a bit rougher. 

Nothing.

Scott was repeating Stiles' name, attempting in vain to wake him. “Please dude. Please!”

Derek felt around for a pulse on Stiles wrist and then his neck. There was something, but it was really faint.

“Stiles!” Scott practically roared, the dread seeping into it.

Derek realized he had to try a different tactic and surveyed the clearing. He knew there was a small creek nearby. Maybe that would work? “Scott, let me try something.” 

Scott was quick in trusting Derek who hoisted Stiles in his arms. He jostled Stiles a bit to get a better grip. Derek realized that Stiles had to have gained about thirty pounds in the years since Derek had last been around him extensively. It wasn’t anything Derek couldn’t handle, but Derek could feel it was all muscle. 

Derek raced Stiles over to the creek. A recent rain had allowed it to fill with water. Cold water. A shock to his system might help wake him up.

“Forgive me, Stiles,” Derek stated matter of factly. He carried Stiles to the deepest pool he could find and even that was barely a foot deep. The water was ice cold and Derek was unsure. 

Scott stood at the bank, sharing Derek’s concern.

Derek dipped Stiles’ entire body including his face into the frigid waters. 

The reaction was instant and Derek was never happier to feel Stiles flail like only Stiles Stilinski could flail.

“Son of a bitch!” Stiles yelled.

To Derek, no sweeter words were ever said. And that was a problem.

***

Stiles did not care for Derek carrying him, bridal style, out of the woods, but he was too tired to fight him off. Scott had run ahead to meet Liam who had brought his car into the Preserve. Stiles realized it was better to be transported to the hospital by automobile as opposed to being carried by a very naked Derek Hale. 

“Dude,” Stiles whispered. “Put some clothes on. People get put on the sex offender registry for this type of shit. I should know. I put people on the sex offender registry for this type of shit.”

Derek continued to trample through the forest. “Oh really? Are you going to arrest me Mr. Law Man? Whose clothes do you think you’re wearing?”

“Yes, I am the law,” Stiles said, poking Derek in his hairy chest, a fine pelt of black fur spreading across it. Stiles found himself swallowing a huge lump when he came across a small clearing in the fur and the eruption of a nipple. 

Wait…

“Your clothes!?” Stiles flailed and immediately regretted it. He had kicked the side of a tree with his bloodied foot and he was sure regretting it. He hadn’t felt too bad before, surmising that his injuries weren’t that bad.

“Are you okay?” Derek asked, concern coloring his voice. “I don’t need you breaking off your foot before you get some real medical care.”

The pain subsiding, Stiles tried again. “Why am I in your clothes?”

“Yours were ripped and sopping wet. I didn’t want you getting hypothermia.” Derek’s answer was matter of fact, but it was tinged with something that Stiles couldn’t place. He was too tired to try.

“Oh,” Stiles replied. “Thanks for uh…”

“Saving your ass yet again?” Derek let a small smile break through the surface. 

“You’re a real comedian, Derek,” Stiles said. “Do I dare ask why I am out here? I know where you found me.”

Derek hesitated. “I kinda hoped you would know.”

What was left unsaid between Stiles and Derek is that memory problems, mysterious disappearances, and mysterious appearances for Stiles Stilinski were not a good sign. 

Before Stiles traveled too far down that the life story that was Stiles’, Derek had stopped, jostling Stiles yet again. “You are right,” Derek announced. “We are getting close to town, so I better get decent. Do you think you can stand?”

Stiles nodded.

No sooner than Stiles was standing on his own was he falling. Derek, still very naked, caught Stiles easily. 

“Can’t leave you alone for more than a second before you get yourself hurt again,” Derek said with a smile. “Here, lean on this tree. I can hear Liam’s car just up the road.” 

“Stiles?” It was Scott who had appeared around the bend in the road. “Derek will meet us at home. We got to get you checked out. Can you walk?”

Stiles found himself disappointed when he found that Derek had disappeared. Stiles quickly found himself unable to wallow in that disappointment as pain flared up instantly across his body. He whimpered and allowed Scott to essentially carry him to the back of Liam’s SUV. 

Only when they were enroute to the hospital did Stiles realize why he hadn’t hurt so much before. Derek had drained his pain the whole journey from the Nemeton.


End file.
